Page 152 of Lethal Legacy

“Andersson’s sold the yacht, so he might not have been here at all. This just came up, as I said. I haven’t had time to look into it properly.” He takes one look at my face. “I know, I know. Keep digging. Be discreet.” He shakes his head tiredly. “It’s a hell of a coincidence. But it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, boss. Lars Andersson could match any of the techies in this building, and then some. He’s basically a fucking genius. If he wanted to get into Mercura, I hate to say it, but he’dbein.”

“For fuck’s sake.” I rub my face again. “Either way, I don’t like the thought of him being anywhere near Mercura. Stay on it, Pavel. Actually, throw everything you’ve got at it. This could seriously fuck us.”

In more ways than one.

“Boss.”

“What?” I try not to snarl. I truly do. This isn’t Pavel’s fault.

“I know you want all this Petrovsky stuff kept on the down-low. But I’m going to need help on this. I’m swamped already.”

I frown. “You can get some of the tech kids on it, Pavel. This isn’t a background check—”

“No.” His answer is swift and certain. “I trust them, boss. But Lars Andersson is like a fucking god to most of those kids. He’s the classic tech start-up boy wonder, started in his parents’ basement when he was a teenager, had his first multimillion-dollar deal by the time he was sixteen. There’s no way I’m giving any of them the chance to have so much as a shot at outsmarting him. It’s like dangling heroin in front of an addict. None of them will be able to resist doing dangerous shit.”

“You could have mentioned all this when I sold the fucking yacht to him,” I say tightly.

Pavel gives me a rather old-fashioned look. “As I recall, your only comment when I mentioned Andersson’s line of work was that you, quote, didn’t give a fuck what tech bullshit he did, so long as his money was good.”

Unfortunately, that does sound like me.

“Dammit.” I glare at him. “Tell me there’s no way he could have found traces of Mercura on the equipment on board.”

“Not a chance.” Pavel’s already shaking his head. “My people replaced the entire system with new equipment. TheGuapawas sold with all the same capabilities, but absolutely no trace of prior activity. If Andersson is working on this, then it’s his own doing.”

Which doesn’t make me feel any better at all. And doesn’t solve the problem of who I can trust to help Pavel.

“Can I make a suggestion?” he asks hesitantly.

I nod curtly.

“Mickey.”

“What?” I stare at him in disbelief. “Mickey’s a fucking kid.”

“So was every tech in here when they started. Mickey is also a genius. And he’s been working alongside me for months. He knows how I work. He’s fast, and he learns even faster. He’s exactly what I need. And you trust him.”

I drum my fingers on the table, thinking. Mickey will be on school holidays in just over a week. He’s already been accepted into multiple schools for next year. And God knows, there’s nowhere he’d be happier than holed up in the Mercura basement with Pavel.

And Pavel’s right. Idotrust him.

“I’ll set it up,” I say.

47

LUCIA

“And you and Masha will be here?” Ofelia chews her lip nervously.

“We’re not going anywhere, darling.” I indicate the enormous pile of churros on the plate in front of us and the pot of chocolate that is currently decorating Masha’s dress. “We’ll be watching you from here. And Dimitry’s got security under control. Don’t worry,” I say in a lower voice. “They’ll stay out of sight. Your friends will hardly know they’re there.”

“Yeah, right,” Ofelia mutters. “Like they’re ever more than five meters away. It’s okay,” she adds, seeing my face. “I know the security guys are necessary. I just hate that they’re always around.”

“I know.” I squeeze her hand. I do know. I also wouldn’t even consider being in this plaza if it weren’t for Dimitry and his men.

It’s the annual festival celebrating the pilgrimage to El Rocío. All of Andalucia takes part. Those making the pilgrimage parade through the streets in a flamboyant display of flamenco dresses, oxen-drawn wagons, and proud Spanish caballeroson prancing horses. Many of the women in their dresses are perched up behind the men on horseback. The wagons wind through the streets accompanied by flamenco music and the rapid, rhythmic clapping that propels it. The pilgrimage can take several weeks, depending on where the pilgrims begin from, and the starting day is always a huge fiesta. We’re sitting in the plaza from which this particular procession will begin, and it’s already a riot of color. Normally Roman would be hovering anxiously at anything like this. But it’s been two months since there’s been any sight of Lance Ryder, or the slightest indication that the Orlovs have any idea that we’re here. Security is still tight, but lately, I’ve begun to relax slightly.

Maybe the information Papa got was wrong. It’s even possible that we’ve managed to either throw the Orlovs off the scent or that they’re simply not game to take Roman on. If I had to lay money on it, I’d guess the second one. Either way, I’ve breathed a lot easier since Roman found out who I really am. And I’ve been so damned happy lately that part of me simply doesn’t want to think about what could go wrong.

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